the couch for another
carton of cigarettes. Distantly, “You need a life outside of that laptop of
yours.”
Chloe goes slack-jawed, utterly appalled. A life outside?
Wait. Who has the job again? By life, she must mean a boyfriend. She must mean
a herd of girlfriends. She must mean nightlife and parties and hours wasted at
a local hangout. Chloe wonders if her mother can even fathom the gravity of her
time spent on her laptop. Every keystroke brings her closer to her ultimate
dream—her lifelong vision. Every moment is valued, prized, and put to good use.
“If I’m gonna be a published writer, I need to write,” Chloe
retorts.
But Cleopatra, ever the spirit-dampening realist, only has a
mind to reiterate the enormous odds stacked against her. “Only 5% of writers
get published.”
“I have every intention of being in that 5%.” Chloe would
like to think that her mother would encourage her determination and foster
further persistence. She does desire her approval, no matter how her callous
attitude suggests otherwise. Cleopatra is her mother.
Her mother shrugs, like she always does when matters become
too serious for her to entertain and she loses all interest. “I just think you
can do better for yourself.”
Chloe feels as though she has been slapped. If doing better
means taking up a vocation or participating in activities that she has no
passion for, then she is content exactly where she is. “And I think you can do
better than Greg,” Chloe combats.
This seems to take her mother by surprise because the woman
stands upright and stares at her like a deer in the headlights. The last thing
Chloe wants to do is bring this up, but shock-value seems to be the only way to
bring her mother around; to convince her to see life under the lens of truth
and not wishful thinking. “How many times has he tried to kill you?” Chloe
spits.
Cleopatra touches a scar on her face. Her hand hovers there,
in an attempt to hide her shame. Greg did not mean to, or so he claims. It
happened in a spate of rage—a crime of passion. The bottle was just within
reach. He acted without thinking. He will never let it happen again. He swore,
never again. And the incident with the iron was completely her fault. She
deserved the burn. Cleopatra hooks her hair behind her ear, trying to hide the
fact that Chloe’s comment struck a chord in her.
Once again, she changes the subject. “How was work?”
Chloe shakes her head, plainly disappointed, her nerves
frayed to the point where she wants to yank her hair out. She has never seen
eye to eye with her mother, and probably never will. Chloe cannot understand
how one person could make so many bad choices. She drops the carton of
cigarettes onto the coffee table with a dull thump. “I have stuff to do.” Chloe
turns on her heel and heads to her room.
Cleopatra rummages through the kitchen cabinets. She finds
her bottle of Vodka and pours herself a glass. There is no ice in the
refrigerator because she forgot to fill the freeze trays. Moreover, there is
nothing to mix it with, as they cannot afford soda. She drinks it straight. She
figures, all things considered, that it is a more effective method anyhow.
There is nothing to lessen the blissful sensation, the happiness, the freedom ,
that comes from her truest friend.
•
That night, Chloe sits on her bed in front of her laptop,
staring at a blank screen with a blinking cursor. She wills her fingers to
begin typing, but they rest unmoving on the keyboard. Her stare is blank,
reflecting her mind. For the life of her, she cannot think of a thing worth
writing about. Fighting with her mother drains her.
She hears Cleopatra and Greg arguing in an adjoining room.
The voices are escalating. She covers her ears to block out the sounds. Chloe
glances around the room. She snatches her headphones from her bedside table and
quickly plugs up her ears with the ear buds. She plugs them into the headphone
jack and starts blasting heavy metal.
She
carton of cigarettes. Distantly, “You need a life outside of that laptop of
yours.”
Chloe goes slack-jawed, utterly appalled. A life outside?
Wait. Who has the job again? By life, she must mean a boyfriend. She must mean
a herd of girlfriends. She must mean nightlife and parties and hours wasted at
a local hangout. Chloe wonders if her mother can even fathom the gravity of her
time spent on her laptop. Every keystroke brings her closer to her ultimate
dream—her lifelong vision. Every moment is valued, prized, and put to good use.
“If I’m gonna be a published writer, I need to write,” Chloe
retorts.
But Cleopatra, ever the spirit-dampening realist, only has a
mind to reiterate the enormous odds stacked against her. “Only 5% of writers
get published.”
“I have every intention of being in that 5%.” Chloe would
like to think that her mother would encourage her determination and foster
further persistence. She does desire her approval, no matter how her callous
attitude suggests otherwise. Cleopatra is her mother.
Her mother shrugs, like she always does when matters become
too serious for her to entertain and she loses all interest. “I just think you
can do better for yourself.”
Chloe feels as though she has been slapped. If doing better
means taking up a vocation or participating in activities that she has no
passion for, then she is content exactly where she is. “And I think you can do
better than Greg,” Chloe combats.
This seems to take her mother by surprise because the woman
stands upright and stares at her like a deer in the headlights. The last thing
Chloe wants to do is bring this up, but shock-value seems to be the only way to
bring her mother around; to convince her to see life under the lens of truth
and not wishful thinking. “How many times has he tried to kill you?” Chloe
spits.
Cleopatra touches a scar on her face. Her hand hovers there,
in an attempt to hide her shame. Greg did not mean to, or so he claims. It
happened in a spate of rage—a crime of passion. The bottle was just within
reach. He acted without thinking. He will never let it happen again. He swore,
never again. And the incident with the iron was completely her fault. She
deserved the burn. Cleopatra hooks her hair behind her ear, trying to hide the
fact that Chloe’s comment struck a chord in her.
Once again, she changes the subject. “How was work?”
Chloe shakes her head, plainly disappointed, her nerves
frayed to the point where she wants to yank her hair out. She has never seen
eye to eye with her mother, and probably never will. Chloe cannot understand
how one person could make so many bad choices. She drops the carton of
cigarettes onto the coffee table with a dull thump. “I have stuff to do.” Chloe
turns on her heel and heads to her room.
Cleopatra rummages through the kitchen cabinets. She finds
her bottle of Vodka and pours herself a glass. There is no ice in the
refrigerator because she forgot to fill the freeze trays. Moreover, there is
nothing to mix it with, as they cannot afford soda. She drinks it straight. She
figures, all things considered, that it is a more effective method anyhow.
There is nothing to lessen the blissful sensation, the happiness, the freedom ,
that comes from her truest friend.
•
That night, Chloe sits on her bed in front of her laptop,
staring at a blank screen with a blinking cursor. She wills her fingers to
begin typing, but they rest unmoving on the keyboard. Her stare is blank,
reflecting her mind. For the life of her, she cannot think of a thing worth
writing about. Fighting with her mother drains her.
She hears Cleopatra and Greg arguing in an adjoining room.
The voices are escalating. She covers her ears to block out the sounds. Chloe
glances around the room. She snatches her headphones from her bedside table and
quickly plugs up her ears with the ear buds. She plugs them into the headphone
jack and starts blasting heavy metal.
She
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